Kiddo

For just a second, a strong gust pushes me off balance. I slip, my foot careens over the cliff’s edge. A warm tingle overtakes my senses. Far off, another me lays at the bottom of the cliff—a watch his matted hair stretch along jagged rock, seep into the sea. I’m not sure which “me” I’d prefer to be; I never bothered learning too much about myself.

When they sleep, sometimes I sneak outside and wander around in the darkness. Warm tingles.

During the day, I sleep—mostly. Sometimes I watch waves tumble over rocks from my bedroom window. Everything’s always moving.

Wanna know a secret? If I had a super power—I’d freeze the whole world. The waves, the wind, everybody and me.

I know how to smile…but I wouldn’t want to be frozen like that. They say your face’ll get stuck that way. I wouldn’t want to be angry, either. I just want to look like me, I guess. I don’t have to be making a face, do I?

The other kids don’t come around. But I don’t really like them, either. For fun, I like to play a game where I used my super power on them.

Hah! They’ll never leave their houses again unless I say so! Have fun watching waves from your windows!

I spread my arms and balance along the cliff’s edge, daring another gust to push me into the other me. It doesn’t, or my super power won’t let it. The wind dies down almost completely—what if I really do have super powers?

I’m bored.

In an instant, I’m back inside and staring at the waves from my window. The wind picks up again.

Maybe everything freezes when I go outside, and starts again when I come back inside. Maybe it’s me.

Next to my bedroom window, I watch everything move along as it should. The other me comes loose from the rock and slips softly into the sea.

Advertisements

andante con moto

Mine meet the painting man’s eyes, “you read too much.” He says. He used to be a jazz musician. I crook a smile, embellish a nod, and refill my right ear with Mendelssohn. He stares agape for a moment–saturnine eyes droop, catch themselves, then fix upright again. He takes a thin brush from robin’s egg-colored water and continues his piece.

Violins drift in quiescence, flute-float and reach a surfeit of colorful bassoons and trumpets before they tumble back to simple notes. The blue-haired girl behind the jazz player has buttons in the back of her shirt. She reads andante con moto and flicks her wrist as she goes. She turns a page and the jazz player looks askance, first at her, then me, then back to his work.

I want to feel something, but the words of this story are so far flat. From the window, a boy wanders in circles as he takes pulls from a cigarette, and I let go a sigh. I shouldn’t be reading this much.

I should be writing.

I should be writing.
I should be writing.

A strong wind knocks the smoking boy and his smoke-line off-balance, the first of the season. The Mendelssohn piece ends. I should read to something else; something lighter. I should write. I watch the jazz player use a toothpick to dot black on his canvas. The blue-haired girl’s wrist twirls and dances to the words of her paperback. I pack my bag and leave.

A Palliative

At this point, I don’t know what it’ll take. Do I need a new computer? Should I give the typewriter another go? Handwriting has its merits, but God knows I don’t have the patience. And then there’s this thing—a netbook. I’m staring deadpan at you right now. The words this thing conjures up are saturnine, they ain’t mine. Not to say I don’t have a certain muted punch to my offerings, just that my own irascible writings are much different from the Sturm und Drang that drip, drip, drip out in these Google documents.

What the fuck are you talking about?

Somebody needs to save me. Chuck this laptop into the river and let my hands roam other white plains for a while. There’s the rub. Self-masturbatory? Definitely. Ugh.

So here’s the deal, right. I didn’t expect what happened to happen, even if I did write about it. Eating those words, looking at empty spaces between my own. I’m my own Nostradamus, and I could kick myself for not seeing things sooner—or listening to myself, or editing even once or…or, shit I don’t know. Eat those words. It all comes full circle.

But she’s gone now. And there ain’t a word in this language, or any other, that’s gonna change a damned thing. Do I want it changed? 

How do I make love stay?

Don’t know. Or I do. Seven years is a long time. A long itch. A stretch. I’ve come out, abruptly, tabula rasa. Except there’s etching everywhere—but that’s how I feel. Empty? New? Can’t put a finger on it, they’re too busy plugging away, desperately looking for a loose word or two. Catch as catch can. Whatever comes, I’ll take it. Except, nothing. The words whiz on by.

Ah shit, I’m sorry for this. I’m working hard on things. For what? I don’t know. My stories are important to me, even if they mean little. Or worse, a whole lot. Too much to bare.

Don’t let this be it, please. I can’t let it be. I’m drunk. It’s a beautiful night. I’ve been listening to more classical music these days: Bach, Debussy, Handel, Schubert, Chopin, Paganini, Mendelssohn, Brahms, Tchaikovsky…I’m calling on you dudes. Help a guy out. I can be romantic, too. Read some of my earlier stuff; it’ll resonate, I swear.

More research. That’s the thing. Dive into words, into studies, and hope your own words don’t drown. Feel that pressure? Deep, man, reeeaaallll deep.

What’s happened to me? Who the hell am I? A phoenix? More like its’ ashes.

I’ll figure it out. Always do.

Until next time. Who knows when that’ll be…